“Even without the crowd, it saves us hours of travel time in the Dark Below.” Yorl ignores him and insists to the prince, “Speed is of the essence.”

“Is death of the fuckin’ essence?” Malachite asks him lightly.

“We’ll be fine! We have me.” I jerk my thumb to my empty chest and wink. “I can die a few times.”

“You upworlders don’t seem to spiritsdamn understand,” Mal says faux patiently. “The Fog Gate is where we send our defectors and criminals to die.”

“So then we take the safe route,” Fione says softly. “And risk Varia attacking in that time.”

“No!” Malachite blurts and then heaves a sigh so massive, it squeaks his chainmail. “Fine. Fine! This is total death-wish garbage, but I’ll go along with it because why not?!”

“I have my grandfather’s map.” Yorl taps his head.

“What map?” Malachite growls.

“He bought a rudimentary map of the Fog Road from a beneather on his travels in Pala Amna.”

“You know who else bought a rudimentary map?” Malachite motions to the land. “All the dead skeletons in there who were naive enough to give up a gold piece for some hungry kid’s attempt at gouging tourists! There is no map! The ancestral council are the only ones who know the way, and they make sure of that!”

Yorl looks thoroughly shocked, his ears pulling back. “Are you saying my grandfather—the smartest mortal in all of Arathess—was duped?”

“I’m saying I was seven when Muro Farspear-Ashwalker came to Vetris,” Malachite fires back. “And he was a laugh-happy old croak of a man who tripped over his own robe a lot!”

Yorl goes a shade darker under his whiskers. “How dare you—”

“He’s not all wrong, Yorl,” Lucien murmurs from the railing. “Your grandfather did laugh a lot.”

I think back on Muro’s night visit. He certainly did laugh a lot, the jolly old cat. As in life, so in afterlife.

“A real hoot. Complete opposite of you, frankly,” Malachite bites at Yorl.

“All right, break it up.” I step between them. Malachite throws his hands up just as the polymaths bring the sails down, and Yorl’s huge green eyes quietly watch the sea below us. The ship slowly glides into a rickety wood dock covered in moss that looks as if it hasn’t seen traffic since the Sunless War.

“You okay?” I touch Yorl’s paw as we walk down the gangplank.

The celeon looks over at me, heavy-lidded. “Yes. It’s just strange. To hear of someone you hold in such high regard as being…”

“Not like you envisioned?” I ask.

He nods. “Not anything like I envisioned.”

“He tried to help Vetris, and Varia. I didn’t know him, but I’d say he was a good guy.”

“He helped design white mercury swords to kill witches.”

“We all have our faults,” I chirp. “Your grandpa’s was laughing.”